Today is my due date. I am still pregnant. We are waiting.
When I was pregnant with Arthur, I happily told everyone that I didn’t put much stock in due dates and preferred to think about having a due month (including the two weeks before and two weeks after). It was a good thought and easy to say because I was a relatively comfortable pregnant lady, and he was born 5 days early.
With Lucy, I I felt like she’d be early, for some reason. But she wasn’t. Instead I spent my due date pregnant, in the hospital I was planning on delivering, visiting my sister-in-law and holding my sweet nephew who was born the day before. Lucy was born the next day.
Devon has been casually suggesting times when it would be good to have a baby. He’ll give me a kiss on his way out the door and say, “Have a baby today, okay?”
My best metaphor for waiting for labor is that it’s like being told that you will be asked to run a marathon, anytime in the next month. It will be hard, but you’ll have your husband beside you, although he will be on a moped, putting along beside you, shouting encouragement. The good news is that Christmas comes at the finish line. So waiting for labor is like waiting for Christmas, except there is a marathon in between, and you don’t know when it’s going to be.
So we wait and life gradually slows down. I bend over less. I don’t carry my children as often. Naps become mandatory. We try to stay busy and know that at any moment all of our lives will upended. The incubating caterpillar of our present will emerge and wetly unfurl into the butterfly of our future, with all of the chaos and commotion of a cracking chrysalis. But until then, we wait.